


cinders

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9532475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She knew that aplacecouldn't save anyone; she knew also that her homeland was barren and rough, wild and empty. Yet she still felt so small, in King's Landing, and insignificant--all she was doing here was taking up space. She wanted a summer's snow, thigh-deep and bitter cold; she wanted skies.She wanted what she'd desired ever since they'd taken her father's head. She wanted her home.





	

 

 

 

It wasn't the dragon queen's beauty that had brought her this far.

Sansa could practically seek lifetimes in the pores of her skin, but this wasn't enough. She'd lost Daenerys in the transition, in the moments when she became something less than she had been before. Once she'd been the daughter of a proud, old House; heir to Winterfell; the key to the vast and unconquerable North. But in the dragon queen's bed she was only ever Sansa, auburn and ivory, reduced to a flickering shadow of who she knew she was supposed to be.

She felt, at times, that she had no real reason for this restlessness. The queen treated her gently, with kindness rather than artifice; King's Landing was still the serpents' nest it had always been, but it was so much easier to bear, with Dany there. Sansa had watched with the rest as Drogon melted down the Iron Throne--that hideous, twisting chair--in a burst of white-hot flame, and the queen had proclaimed to them all that she was not her father's daughter. Afterwards she had called for Sansa in the privacy of her chambers, and then slowly kissed every inch of her, using tongue and teeth and fingers, until Sansa had thought she might die from the hot, patient pleasure of it.

But it still began to feel heavy, living under such a skin. She was just so far--far from home, far from anyone who she had ever loved, or who had ever loved her.

Sometimes Sansa would think, as she rested besides the queen and they twined on the great bed, of how the brightest flames were said to burn the hottest. She wondered if Dany wasn't merely jesting when she held Sansa's hair in her hands and murmured, "You are the greatest fire I've ever lit."

She wondered if she was just like a candle, a torch to keep out the dark: something to be sparked once, to flare brightly, and then to never burn again.

 

 

 

Making love to the Targaryen queen was almost like being kissed by fire.

Just as Daenerys had conquered King's Landing (and then, the rest of the country) did she seek to conquer her lover in turn, using fingers and tongue until Sansa cried out sharply, begged for release. She twisted underneath the queen's touch, spine curving up when she felt Dany's tongue lap at her most sensitive spot--and when she came, she did so tremblingly, sweat pearling all over the map of her skin, this newly-charted territory of the dragon queen.

Afterwards Sansa did the same for Dany, but more slowly, drawing soft kisses all the way from her mouth down to the soft golden hair between her legs. Sansa was never sure if she liked the way that Dany wound her hand in her hair as she licked and teased, so queerly possessive, but she did know that she liked how the queen would kiss her just after, and how they'd each taste themselves on the other's lips.

Only when the queen had begun to pull away did Sansa allow herself to do so, laying back bare on the pillows with an openness that would have appalled her younger self. She watched Daenerys through half-lidded eyes, succumbing to the warmth of the room and the golden languor suffusing her limbs. She was never sure of what to say in such moments.

It was true enough that Sansa loved her--had loved Dany, maybe, from the moment she'd seen the queen alight on the earth astride her monstrous black dragon--but she wasn't sure if such a thing was appropriate to mention. And did queens ever love their... their concubines? A little shiver went through Sansa at the realization of it, of what she was: if not in truth then at least in the eyes of her countrymen. Yet such a thing had not been her choice, not really.

"You look troubled, sweetling." The dragon queen's voice was soft as she lay beside Sansa, their faces now mere inches apart. Sansa looked into her violet eyes and something inside of her clenched tightly.

"I was just thinking of...of my love for you, Your Grace." Maybe it was madness that drove Sansa to say it; maybe it was the golden weight limning her bones. Maybe it was something else.

Daenerys went very still for a moment, great eyes unblinking. _I love you, too,_ Sansa wanted her to say. She wanted to see her lips part. She wanted to hear it. _I love you, and I will hold you in my hands no longer. You are free._

But the queen said nothing, and Sansa saw at once the truth of it: that both of their hearts were very far away.

She knew that a _place_ couldn't save anyone; she knew also that her homeland was barren and rough, wild and empty. Yet she still felt so small, in King's Landing, and insignificant--all she was doing here was taking up space. She wanted a summer's snow, thigh-deep and bitter cold; she wanted skies.

She wanted what she'd desired ever since they'd taken her father's head. She wanted her home.

"My queen... do I have your permission to speak freely?"

Dany frowned a little, eyes hardening. "Of course."

"If I were to ask you for one thing," Sansa murmured, heart beating against her ribcage now like the wings of some trapped bird, "One thing that would bring me all of the happiness in the world... would you grant it to me?"

 "Yes," said the queen, seemingly without hesitation. "I would."

It felt as if something inside of Sansa was caving in as she continued. "Then... would you allow me to depart King's Landing? Would you give me leave to return to my home in the North?"

To her surprise, Daenerys Targaryen smiled. The beauty of it, to Sansa, was almost smothering. The marvelous composition of her face, the rosebud of her mouth and the catlike angle of her eyes... it was too much at once. It exhausted Sansa, had always exhausted her. _Loving_ Dany exhausted her. Perhaps what the songs said was true, and mere mortals were not made to love Targaryens. At the very least, she wasn't.

"We want two such different things, I see," the queen murmured. "You want to return to your home in the North. And I just want to be brave enough to stay in one place." She came close, pressed her mouth to Sansa's with a firmness that spoke of this being their last real kiss. When she drew away once more there was a distant gleam to her features, as if a door had somehow closed in the strained silences between them.

"You've never been a slave. If what you desire is to go," said the queen, "then you may go."

 

 

 

Later, under the cool light of a new moon, Sansa felt herself hardening, skin transforming to something as cold and smooth as glass. On the balcony outside of her rooms she sat dressed in shift and gown, legs bare to the chill as she contemplated the distance between herself and the sky.

If she had a dragon, she could have measured it. But she wasn't a Targaryen. There was no fire in her blood, and she'd come to loathe the heat once more, the snappishness of the servants underneath it and how it made even the most robust blooms wilt and bleed. She wanted the cold instead, the snow and the frost. Sansa closed her eyes tightly like a child, trying to remember. It had been a long time.

She was finally going home.

But even with that knowledge, something inside of her twisted a little at the thought of leaving the queen in the pit of vipers that was King's Landing. It was silly, of course. Daenerys would not really be by herself, not at all; she had advisers and servants, friends and allies, courtiers and sycophants. It was Sansa who had been truly alone in the capital, not the Targaryen regent. And as far as she knew, Daenerys did not share her own aversion to the place, anyway. Sansa wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and thought back to what the queen had told her, just before she'd left:

_It is easier than you'd think, sweet one, to confuse fear with love._

"Is it?" Sansa murmured into the heavy, soft night, eyes flickering open. "Is it so easy?"

The only response she received was the hiss of the wind in the trees, and the chill that lanced its way through the rushes of her heart.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 


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